


The Way Home

by liciapocalypse



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bellarke, F/M, Post-Season/Series 02, Reunions, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-11 07:13:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4426205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liciapocalypse/pseuds/liciapocalypse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellarke reunion, post-season 2. Separated for months, Bellamy and Clarke deal very differently with the time apart and working through the trauma of Mount Weather, and when they finally meet again, the reunion doesn't go as either of them had imagined. Trigger warning for suicidal thoughts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brennanaphone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brennanaphone/gifts).



He doesn’t go find her, he doesn’t look for signs of her, he doesn’t ask what few Grounder contacts they still have for word of her.

 

It’s been sixty-five days and he has other things on his mind.

 

Like, eleven shelters were knocked down in a storm two weeks ago and still haven’t been repaired--Lincoln said something vague about the type of thatching they’ve been using, but nobody’s Earth Skills seem to be up to snuff when it comes to roof architecture and tree fibers.

 

Or, that Abby seems intent on a policy of complete isolationism (she doesn’t know history the way he does) but to be honest he can’t seem to find the right words to persuade her any more. Maybe it’s because he’s not sure he can persuade himself.

 

Then there’s the medicine problem, a daily headache. They have such limited knowledge coupled with massive demand, but Lincoln can only be in one place at a time and everyone is understandably jumpy about experimenting with herbs and plants on Earth. They’re drastically different from the varieties vaguely detailed in their records from the Ark, and they have very likely lingering aftereffects of radiation. The only person whose curiosity is not overcome by paranoia is Monty, but what work he has done has revealed precious little.

 

And, he’s struggling to integrate the 44 into Camp Our Lady of Perpetual Jaha, which to be honest worries him the most of his various problems. Obviously, most of the Arkers couldn’t be happier to see their friends and family back from their “ordeal,” which is never spoken of but hangs over the entire camp like a cloud. On the other hand, there is now such a huge gulf of experience and pain between the two groups it doesn’t seem like it’ll ever be breached.

 

Oh, and he’s been thinking about how long it is until he can kill himself.

 

“Bellamy?” Harper interrupts his thoughts, approaching him from the side but not touching his arm. She obviously remembers what happened the last time she did that to get his attention.

 

He clears his throat, focusing. “Yeah, what’s up?”

 

“Monty needs to talk to you, and I wanted to ask you something too. D’you have a minute?” She pauses, looking closely at his face before continuing. “We could talk while we go find Monty?”

 

“Sure, I have time.” He nods and they head towards the southeast corner of the camp, the unofficial residence of the 44. Bellamy can’t help watching Harper out of the corner of his eye, noting with satisfaction she no longer walks as stiffly as she did after the adrenaline from their escape wore off. Abby says the drilling thankfully didn’t have permanent effect, but he wonders if the Mountain Men can still make them suffer, even now.

 

“We were wondering if you could talk to Abby and Kane again about weapons.” She notes the shift in his shoulders and quickly continues. “I know you’ve brought it up before, and I know we pushed it a lot early on, but I think it would seriously do a lot.”

 

They’ve discussed this before, the two of them--the fact that the 44 can’t seem to find an accepted role in this makeshift society of theirs. Even if they hadn’t been captured, the remnants of the 100 would always have clashed with the members of the Ark once they arrived on Earth, but the trauma of the Mountain Men made things that much worse.

 

“Everyone feels exposed, Bellamy, and we’re not allowed to protect ourselves! They all forget that they’re not the ones who got us through it in there--we did that. I remember what it’s like to be helpless, and I don’t want that feeling in someplace that’s supposed to be home.”

They’ve stopped walking now, and Bellamy remembers the first (and second, and third…) time he brought it up with Abby. He does respect her leadership and value her work as a doctor, although he can’t bear to set foot in the little clinic--the sight of her or Jackson applying a bandage or examining patients brings up too many memories now too painful to touch. But Abby (and most of the other adults) either forget or ignore that the 100 made their way in this world first, and that the Ark’s classification of anyone under 18 as a “child” makes next to no sense.

 

Finally, Bellamy sighs. “You know I agree with you on this, but I honestly don’t know if Abby will ever budge. It’s those old roles of the Ark--only the police forces from up there get weapons down here, you know that.”

 

Harper takes this in, continuing to look steadily at him. Finally, she looks down and says quietly: “I don’t know how much longer we can stay here.”

 

He knows exactly what she means.

 

It turns out Monty wanted him to see some new salves they made for burns and bites (another thing Earth Skills never mentioned: nuclear war-hardened mosquitos), which he’d been testing on his own arms to make sure they were safe. This is what the 44 have learned to do--take risks themselves for the good of the group, and Bellamy carries the knowledge of it like a rock in his stomach.

 

This responsibility--once he thought he was meant for it, that he had a right to it. How idiotic. He doesn’t have a right to anything, and he certainly doesn’t deserve anything. He wonders why no one else has noticed. But the responsibility is there, nonetheless, and it’s the only thing keeping him from finding a quiet place in the woods with some of the berries Earth Skills made them all memorize....but for now he thanks his luck that the nightmares are quiet, at least, and the faces don’t come out during the day.

 

And only once about every week or so does he calculate, in his mind, how long it will be before they don’t need him anymore.

 

“Bell! Bellamy!” In the distance Octavia is shouting at him from a perimeter perch she and Raven put together along the Southern wall. “Come here!” She sounds urgent, which is enough to get his attention--the emotional control his sister developed has shocked even him.

 

He hurries to the base of the platform, where she has already deftly climbed down to meet him. “Somebody’s approaching camp, and I think it’s--”

 

He knows before she says it, before he even looks to see Abby running towards the gate, before the flash of gold and the ground is gone from beneath his feet. Brown eyes lock with blue and he notes with detached interest that he doesn’t seem to be breathing.

 

 _Clarke_.

 

* * *

 

Clarke has always loved the quiet of Earth--for its first eighteen years, her life was filled with the sounds necessary for life support in space: the hum of generators, whirring fans circulating air, the buzz of fluorescent lights. In the few moments of peace she’s had on the ground, she marveled at many things--the colors, the smells, the sensation of dirt underneath her fingers and wind in her hair--but the quiet seemed most striking. As she dusts off her pants after a night sleeping in the hollow just inside a cave, she thinks that the stillness out in the woods is equal parts comforting and terrifying. Quiet means no battles, no screams, no gunfire or fire. There are no more demands from others, arguments, or problems, other than the immediate questions of daily nourishment. But in the empty silence she only has her thoughts to keep her company.

 

It’s been sixty-five days and she’s thought of him for every one.

 

She tells herself that it’s not just him that she thinks about--she thinks of them all, dead and alive, friend and enemy, Grounder and Mountain Man, Arker and the 100. She thinks about every decision she made, every mistake that got somebody hurt, or worse. She thinks about all the moments in her life that were happy and how practically every one of them is now tinted with sadness.

 

Some days she wakes up with her fingers itching, compulsively reaching for a wound to bandage on a patient who isn’t there. She finds herself mentally making a list of how many stores would be needed for eighty-two people to get through the next week. She almost wishes for those day-to-day worries to take her mind off what’s in her own head, but then she remembers that this is what she wanted, this is why she left.

 

So why does she still feel so shitty?

 

Sixty-five days, and all that’s happened is that the deafening roar of guilt and sorrow has muted to a low hum in the background. She’s just used to it now, and maybe that’s the best she can hope for. Clarke sighs, and stands up, making a last check in the small pack she’s kept with her. When her hand compulsively goes to her hair, checking her braid, for a moment she sees--no, can almost feel, _smell_ \--a mop of brown curls tickling a lightly freckled cheek. She pushes the thought away, for now.

 

She sings softly to herself as she walks along, looking for some berries for breakfast. She no longer worries about encountering any local Grounders--after all this time it’s clear they’re purposefully avoiding her, which is just fine. And since she hasn’t spoken in over two months, she excuses the singing as a way to keep her voice in use for…

 

She stops abruptly, her own thoughts surprising her for once. _In use for when I go back?_ It’s honestly the first time the notion has consciously occurred to her. _When would that even be? And how will I know?_

 

How much longer does she even intend to go on like this? For weeks she’s had not a thought of returning to the camp, the idea almost enough to make her feel physically sick, but in this one moment she finds herself eager (the feeling is so unused as to feel almost foreign)--eager to hear Raven’s sarcasm, to see Monty’s bright eyes, to hear her mother’s voice…

 

And to see him. God, she wants to see him.

 

The feeling comes in a rush, like some sort of dam has broken loose and all the numbness rushes away with pure, unadulterated longing taking its place. For a moment she has to steady herself, and then something new happens--she smiles.

 

She smiles because she realizes that sign she was looking for, when she was ready to go back, has come and smacked her right in the face. The sorrow’s not gone, nor is the guilt, but Clarke feels _alive_ again, alive and ready to do, to make, to struggle, yes, even to fight if need be.

 

A little laugh escapes her as she drops her pack, looking around almost expecting to see him--as if her thoughts could conjure him as easily in reality as in her dreams. She pictures him now, not as she last saw him, but as she imagines he must be--back in that black jacket, perhaps with his curls trimmed, healthy color back in his face, doing what he’s meant to do. What _they’re_ meant to do.

 

 _Maybe this is what being healed feels like_ , she thinks with bemusement. Not feeling free of pain, or the weight of responsibility, but finding the reason again--the reason she took on that pain, shouldered that responsibility. And that reason is distilled in one person, one face she can see in front of her clear as daylight, the voice she feels in her bones.

 

When she comes to herself again, she notices she is already walking, more purposefully than in months, and in the direction of Camp Jaha. Had she been unconsciously holding that orientation in her mind, this whole time? Like a compass she wasn’t even aware of? _The Romans had two goddesses of travel_ , says a tiny voice in her head. _Abeona for outward journeys, and Adiona for safe returns_.

 

Clarke picks up her pace, breakfast forgotten.

 

It only takes her a week to get back, which surprises her, but her wanderings before had been aimless and (with the exception of the first days after leaving him outside the gate) relatively unhurried. She’s hurrying now, her determination offering a strength she had nearly forgotten.

 

When the perimeter comes into sight her breath catches, and she’s suddenly uncertain again. Is this the right thing to do? Is she ready for the faces watching, the expectations and questions, the daily reminders? _I already have daily reminders_ , Clarke thinks. _I don’t need live faces to remember or mourn, but I do need them to move forward_.

 

She steps out from the clearing and almost immediately she hears a cry of warning from what must be the watch. She recognizes pride running through her, pride that they’re still vigilant, and she collects the sensation of it, another long unused emotion. She steels herself and continues forward, noticing a slight tremor in her right hand.

 

They open the gate as soon as she approaches it, although most of the people hang back, uncertain as to how to receive her. _Do you think I know how this is supposed to go? Hello everyone, nice to see you’re all enjoying the lives I saved for you at the expense of over 300 other men, women, and children who died horrible, painful deaths?_

 

But the thought doesn’t have time to linger, because two things happen simultaneously. She sees her mother emerge from a tent and break into a run, and, like a magnet, her eyes are drawn to an unfamiliar lookout platform of some kind. Beside it is a figure, rifle slung familiarly across his chest, and as blue eyes lock with brown his arms drop to his sides and she sighs his name--

 

 _Bellamy_.

 


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst, angst, with a little bit of angst on the side. Good thing we're all masochists here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks again to Brennaphone for humor, motivation, and Word doc edits! And thanks to everyone who read/left kudos on the first chapter :))) say hi on tumblr! (liciapocalypse.tumblr.com)

“Clarke.” Abby breathes her name, surprised and happy and a bit apprehensive. Clarke tears her gaze away from Bellamy, who still seems frozen to the spot. She feels the eyes of all those who’ve gathered around, Arkers and Deliquents, but tries to look steadily back at her mother. _One thing at a time_.

For a moment, Abby struggles uncharacteristically for words, finally placing an arm carefully on Clarke’s arm. “I’m glad you’re back.”

Clarke can tell Abby wants to say more, to ask how she is, perhaps even gather her up in her arms like she used to, but Clarke is grateful that she doesn’t. Abby seems to have recognized (it only took a massacre) that her daughter isn’t a child any more. What she’s been through can’t be fixed, no matter how much she wished it could be, by a hug from her mother. _Maybe there are no good guys_ , that’s what she’d said before. Abby had stopped trying to excuse or berate her, but it hadn’t helped then…

Abby moves away, almost respectfully, letting the waiting Delinquents move forward to greet Clarke. There are no whoops of joy or carefree hugs, they’ve come through too much for that, but Clarke is grateful for every one. Most murmur a few words, touch her arm, and move on. She notes their injuries, looking for lasting scars or limps, and notices that they’re doing the same.

 _Our wounds are inside_ , she thinks. _Theirs and mine_.

The first real smile is Raven, who saunters forward like it’s just another day on the Ground and says, “Hey, Clarke,” before wrapping her in a hug. She moves back to look at Clarke’s face for a moment before her nose wrinkles. “What’s with the braid?”

Clarke chuckles and looks down, feeling the surrounding discomfort break. _Who knew Raven would be good for dissipating tension?_

She’s not quite sure where the two of them stand; as with practically everyone in her life, “it’s complicated” would be a criminal understatement, but at least for now, the mechanic making fun of her hair is the Raven equivalent of a running tackle hug to the ground.

Raven looks at Harper before tipping her head to the southeast of the entrance. “Let’s show Princess what we’ve done with the place, shall we?”

Clarke flinches slightly at the nickname, but it reminds her— _where is he?_ She glances around as the little group moves together, away from the well-trodden, muddy ground by the entrance and along the periphery of the remains of Alpha Station.

She’s surprised when she sees he’s disappeared—it feels strange to be among her friends again but without his solid presence at her side. She doesn’t have time to dwell on it, however, as she is distracted by the new sight in front of her.

The Delinquents have very clearly set up their own “neighborhood” of Camp Jaha, with all but a “keep out” sign asserting the borders of their autonomous region. She sees a separate cooking station, small reservoir, and even a laundry line. Harper must see the look on her face because she says, “Yeah, we’re pretty proud of _Osu Stegeda_.”

 

“It was my idea,” a slightly harsh voice to Clarke’s right asserts. She looks around to see Octavia, still in her Grounder’s garb but with her face clean of war paint. “It means _Our Village_.” She doesn’t explain further, her face hard and blank, but Clarke thinks she understands. The Delinquents may not fully trust all Grounders, but they feel an affinity to them that sometimes supersedes their loyalty to the remnants of the Ark society that imprisoned and marooned them on a hostile world. The resilience and self-reliance they had to learn as The 100…

“We only call it that amongst ourselves, though,” Harper says, leaning towards Clarke. “Things are bad enough between us right now, Abby and the Council only see Grounders as our enemies.” Her mouth hardens to a straight line. “But we remember who our _real_ enemies were.”

The Delinquents disperse slightly, taking up various tasks Clarke’s arrival seems to have interrupted. Finally feeling like she’s not the center of attention, she wanders through _Osu Stegeda_ , savoring the feeling of pride running through her.

Her heart skips slightly when she comes to the edge of the “village,” where the half-makeshift structures meet the outer wall of Camp Jaha. Bellamy is there, his back to her, leaning on a wall and looking out to the mountains beyond.

“Bellamy.” He stiffens at the sound of her voice before slowly turning around, his eyes impossibly brown and Clarke swears she can see every eyelash. She takes in the sight of him, reveling in the details of his appearance she didn’t allow herself to remember before, and she is suddenly aware and awkward, standing there in front of him. Before she’s even decided whether she wants to hug him, kiss him, or collapse to the ground, he sees her shift in weight towards him and—

He flinches.

It is such a slight movement, but so instinctive, so _painful,_ Clarke feels something inside her slip out of place, like one log shifting in a stack of firewood, threatening to initiate an avalanche of carefully arranged pieces into a chaotic mess.

He still hasn’t said a word, but she sees a clench in his jaw as he looks away from her, as if the connection between their eyes was like placing his hand on hot iron.

Finally, he says stiffly, his voice low and gravelly, “Hello, Clarke.” She waits, searching his face for any emotion besides the painful discomfort she can’t understand. “Are you…are you back?” He says it tentatively, carefully, and she remembers the Bellamy she first met, so closed-off and defensive, although the man standing in front of her looks like he couldn’t swagger if he tried.

“I think so, yeah.” He nods, jaw still clenched. “Good, that’s…good. The others will be glad to have you back in charge.” Clarke is puzzled, feeling her sense of discomfort grow, like there’s something extremely important just out of her range of vision that she can’t quite grasp.

He clears his throat. “And you’re all right?” She knows he doesn’t mean okay, or recovered, but she sees a flash of anxious sincerity as he searches her face.

“I’m better,” is all she can think to say. “And you?”

“I…we…there’s been a lot to do,” he says finally. She wants to hear about it, wants him to be the one to show her the changes to the camp, and if he weren’t so silent she could swear he wants to show her too.

“Bellamy, can we—“ she has no idea what to say, but this feels like a huge moment that is passing her by.

“I’m sorry, I can’t do this. I gotta go, Clarke. I’ll…” He seems to struggle for a moment. _I’ll see you around? I’m glad to see you? What?_

“Welcome back.” Cold distance again, walls back up.

And he’s gone, leaving her staring out at the mountains in his place and Clarke can’t decide if it was leaving that was the mistake, or coming back.

This was neither the Bellamy she first met, brash and damaged and aggressive, nor the Bellamy who seemed to instinctively know her every move, fiercely protective and defiant, who had hugged her so tightly she felt like he was a second skin…

“Clarke?”

Clarke blinks, coming out of a daze. How long had she been there, lost in her thoughts? Monty is there, a small, hopeful smile on his face. “May I join you?” He gestures to the ground next to her, and she realizes she is sitting down. _When did that happen?_

“Of course.” He sits down next to her, cross-legged, and follows her gaze to the mountains. “Monty…how are you?” The question feels idiotic almost as soon as she hears herself say it, but to not ask seems so incredibly callous after all he’s been through. After all _she’s_ put him through.

He almost laughs, and she is relieved he recognizes the absurdity of the question as much as she does. “Short answer? I’m all right. _We’re_ all right.”

Clarke nods, encouraging him to say more if he wants to, but assuring him that’s all he needs to say.

Monty pauses before going on. “It’s been tough, Clarke. Jasper still barely speaks, I’ve seen Miller smile about twice, and we’re all pretty isolated in here.” Clarke is silent, letting him take his time.“ But seeing their faces, every day, it helps.” Clarke is shocked to hear words so similar to her own, but in such a different sense—an uncanny feeling, like a faulty mirror image. Monty seems to notice her surprise. “It was the reason, Clarke, and I had to know it was all worth it.” He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t have to.

“I’m glad,” says Clarke. “We can’t change the choices we’ve made, and we all have to find our own way to deal with them, I guess.” She feels stupid, like her words are empty, but Monty nods, and they sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes.

“Monty…”

“You’re going to ask about Bellamy.”

She smiles weakly. “I’m that transparent, huh?” She tries to say it with humor, but Monty isn’t smiling any more and he’s staring very intently at the stiff patch of grass by his feet.

“He’s not okay, Clarke. He’s gotten us through the past few months, and without him we’d probably have zero contact with Abby and the Council, but we’ve all noticed he’s not like he was.”

“None of us are,” Clarke tries, without conviction. Monty looks at her and she feels guilty for a moment.

“You know what I mean, Clarke. We all lost something, or have buried something, but Bellamy…” He searches for the word. “Bellamy…he’s still here, he does what he has to, but it’s like he’s serving out a sentence. Like he’s doing it until at some point he’ll finally be allowed to go.”

“Go where?” She hardly knows how to react, how to make sense of this.

“I don’t know, Clarke. I don’t even know if I’m even close to the mark—nobody’s tried talking to him about it, and you know how he is: do what you gotta do and carry on.”

After another moment Monty gets up, sadness and humor sparkling in his eyes, and for some reason Clarke remembers her first impression of him, goofy and slightly eccentric, joined at the hip with Jasper. _What was that stupid handshake they did…?_

“I still think about it, you know,” Monty says.

“About what?”

“ _What would Clarke do?”_ And he moves off, leaving her in the grass, moisture seeping into the seat of her pants from the slightly damp ground.

Later, when the fire’s low and he’s taking first watch, she pauses and watches Bellamy from a distance as he sits, staring into the flames. She wants nothing more in the world to go to him, to sit next to him, close enough that she can feel his body heat, to tell him that it’s okay he’s broken, she’s broken too and she’s not sure how the pieces fit together but they will, she knows they will, she just needs _him_ …

But she remembers the flinch, the clenched jaw, the pain in his eyes, and the nagging thought that _she_ is the one who caused it, and goes cold inside. She moves away, absentmindedly tugging her braid.

* * *

 

Bellamy stares into the flames, waiting for his heart to stop pounding but knowing it won’t. His breath comes short and tight in his chest, and he feels the carefully constructed walls of distraction crumbling around him. He’s terrified of what will come flooding in.

He’s paralyzed, the “fight or flight” responses battling for control of command central, leaving his head spinning. Every time he tries to form a coherent thought it flits away from him, replaced by her face—the face he tried _not_ to see in every blonde in Camp Jaha, the face he tried _not_ to conjure in his dreams, the face that in the past used to bring comfort (if he had let himself admit it), and now only reminds him of who he is, who he _really_ is—a monster. Once, briefly, he thought differently. Not anymore.

He is jerked out of his thoughts by a shape sitting down next to him, which after a moment of panic is revealed to be Octavia. He sighs in relief and tries to relax a little, noticing the imprints on his palms where his fingernails had been digging in.

They sit for a few minutes without speaking. He had been half of Octavia’s known world for her entire childhood—they know how to sit in silence, the Blake siblings. Finally Octavia speaks.

“What do you see in the future, Bellamy?”

He is so taken aback by the question that for a moment he almost forgets the ache in his chest.

“The future?”

“Yeah, Bell, the future,” she repeats, in that way she used to that always made him feel stupid. “You know, not next week or next month but in a year? Two years? Ten?”

“Why, what do you see?” he asks, half stalling for time.

Octavia also takes a moment, before answering, “I see a garden I’ve planted so I don’t have to go to someone else for breakfast every morning. I see quiet evenings and sketches of butterflies.” Her eyes soften, then become determined again. “I see myself finally getting a hang of that damn bow Lincoln’s trying to get me to learn.”

Bellamy laughs shortly, remembering the mornings filled with Octavia cursing and throwing down the bow in frustration, scaring the crap out of jumpy Arkers who are still half-convinced she must’ve gone crazy, growing up in a hole in the floor. He’s not entirely sure of the contrary, himself.

“You’ll get the hang of it, I know you will,” he assures her. Octavia nods, then nudges him from the side.

“Okay, mister avoidance, now you.”

“I…I don’t really think about the future very much, O.”

“Well, do it now then.” He should’ve known she’d be stubborn as hell about this.

He shakes his head and looks up to the sky, and does what his sister says.

Bellamy has always been single minded, and has never let himself be distracted by the future when the present is trying to send a spear through his gut. Single-minded. On the Ark, it was: protect Octavia. Make sure she has the most normal childhood he could manage for her. On the ground, it was: protect the group. Keep his people together…for _her_. For Clarke. Bellamy sees her again now, and the hand tightens around his chest.

If O had asked him this on the Ark, the answer would’ve been simple—him and Octavia (by some miracle freed of living in a single room), happy and together, no threat of surprise inspections or the feeling that the most important thing in his world was illegal, secret, almost shameful.  

If she’d asked him before Mount Weather (and he had actually been honest with himself) the answer would’ve been equally simple—him and Clarke, with the Delinquents, far from the messes of vestige Ark politics and Grounder clan warfare, living one minor disaster to another but with enough of those moments in between to breathe—Monty and Jasper making horrible moonshine, Monroe showing everyone how to make those insane braids of hers (and threatening Murphy with it if he wouldn’t cut his damn hair)…but it was all a fantasy. Not realistic, or possible, or deserved.

And now, what did he see in his future now?

All those dreams from before, they were worthless now. Octavia didn’t need him, Clarke didn’t want him, and now that she was back the 44 didn’t need him either. Bellamy feels the familiar self-disgust rise again. Octavia looks steadily at him, unflinching, before standing up.

“You need to talk to her, Bell.”

“O, I can’t, I—I wouldn’t know what to say.”

“Then figure it out,” she says, matter-of-factly. Always stubborn, always Octavia. “I’m not losing you, big brother. I refuse to let that happen, after all we’ve been through.” She starts to walk away before turning, almost as an afterthought.

“At first, I thought it was good that Clarke was gone— _I_ certainly didn’t want to see her every day, and I thought with some space apart you could, I dunno, think more clearly about what had happened.” Bellamy shifts uncomfortably—they’ve never spoken of Mount Weather before now.

“But I’m glad she’s back, in a way. I think if things had just gone on the way they have been, one day you would leave camp for a hunt or something and I’d never see you again.” She moves away.

Bellamy sits there, winded, as if he’d just run a marathon. The messenger who inspired the term ran nearly 300 miles in two days before joyfully giving word of a great Athenian victory, only to collapse and die. What a morbid combination of happiness and anguish.

 _Shut up, brain_ , Bellamy thinks.

When Clarke had arrived back in camp he thought he’d be relieved. This burden would be removed, he could pass on the responsibility and those half-entertained thoughts of suicide would finally get their chance.

Instead, as soon as he saw her there in front of him, a little haggard but with a strange brightness in her eyes, there’s been a prickling in his fingers, an itch almost, that he doesn’t know what to do with. The protective numbness that’d been ensconcing him for weeks seems to have been rudely stripped away and frankly, it stings like a motherfucker.

Before she’d left, thinking about Clarke had been like breathing—natural, instinctive. He felt a clarity of purpose with her, something blessedly needed with all the shit they dealt with on the Ground. He never seemed to have time to think about what she really meant to him until she was gone, at which point Bellamy felt like he’d been paddled halfway across a lake and then unceremoniously dumped out without a life jacket.

Ever since she came back, the pull has been almost overwhelmingly strong to go back to her, back to her side. When they’d talked by the fence, however briefly, he’d felt himself adjusting to her moods, trying to anticipate her thoughts, help her fix whatever it was she wanted to fix, and it scared the shit out of him. So he’d gotten out of there as quickly as possible, thoroughly freaked out and confused.

Even now, he itches to go find her, ask her what she saw out there, to tell her about the camp, struggles with the council, even listen to her complain about Raven or her mother. But even as it feels like this would be the most natural thing in the world, he remembers watching her walk away from him, sixty-five days ago, and goes cold inside.

 _May we meet again_. Well, they have. Now what?

 


	3. Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Believe it or not, we're about to get angstier.

Clarke awakens early, unaccustomed after weeks alone to the morning stirrings of others. For a moment she’s completely disoriented before she remembers where she is, and finds the movement around the camp oddly comforting, oddly normal. She lies on her cot for a few minutes, listening to Abby moving around in the adjacent tent. Clarke had wanted to sleep in the 44’s pseudo-village, but they only had exactly the right number of tents for those already there, and she couldn’t say no to Abby when she’d asked her daughter to sleep next to her.

Clarke quickly rebraids her hair before stepping out into the daylight, finding Abby splashing her face with water from a basin. “Clarke,” she says, straightening up. “How’d you sleep?”

“Fine,” she shrugs. She thinks Abby wants to ask about nightmares, so she stretches and asks, “Is there a Council meeting this morning?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact.” Abby smiles thinly. “I should’ve known you’d want to get right back into it. Come on, then. We’ll get some breakfast and head over.” They walk together across camp, Clarke still feeling a little uneasy being around so many people again, but it’s a calm, quiet morning. She hopes it stays that way.

Alpha Station’s metallic floors are familiar underneath her feet, but the reminder of life on the Ark is an unwelcome feeling, and Clarke’s mood darkens a little.

When they make it to the Council chamber, Bellamy’s already there, brooding in a corner, dark circles ghosting around his eyes. _Has he slept?_ Clarke feels that ache again, wanting to reassure him, to help him, but she wouldn’t know what to do even if he let her. She hesitates awkwardly for a moment in the doorway, unsure where to stand. As the others file in, she’s surprised that Bellamy’s the only other Delinquent in the room—surely they must have let another one of them on the Council?

Clarke blinks out of her reverie to see everyone taking their places around the table, and takes a seat several chairs down from Bellamy, watching him out of the corner of her eye.

“The main order of business today,” Abby says in a raised voice, “is to continue our discussion of the Exodus Charter. Some members of this Council are concerned that the Charter isn’t adequately flexible in allowing for changes on the Ground and adapting to new situations. We’ll start with the section concerning mandatory reproduction…”

Clarke listens as they discuss, not wanting to step on any toes so soon after arriving (especially because she was never officially made a member of the Council), trying to get a feel for the mood of the room and their current concerns. She notes that Bellamy steadfastly avoids eye contact with her but doesn’t dominate the discussion in the way she thought he might—he’s either become much more diplomatic, or he’s saving up for something.

It turns out to be the latter.

Abby’s clearly bringing the meeting to a close when Bellamy speaks up. “Chancellor Griffin, one last thing about the Exodus Charter.” Clarke notices the tension rise and several council members shift in their seats. “The Council has already agreed that the unauthorized use of firearms is no longer a felony, as it was originally designated, with the punishment of ten shock lashes.” Abby’s back stiffens at the reminder.

“I ask again that the Council allow the distribution of firearms to select members of my people, who will be responsible for maintaining and securing them.” His speech is formal and without passion, but Clarke can see a defiant spark in his eyes.

“Councilor Blake,” Abby says with a tinge of annoyance, “this body has heard this request before, and this body has _rejected_ this request before. While the use of firearms has been expanded, we cannot allow access to weapons beyond the trained guards in times of relative peace.” Bellamy scoffs at this but Abby goes on, undeterred. “We understand your frustration—“

“No, you don’t.” Bellamy seems to finally be losing his cool, and Clarke feels the energy rolling off him, as if it was in her own body. “You think we just want guns for some sort of selfish reason, maybe you even think we just want to blow off steam with target practice.”

“Councilor Blake—” Abby tries to interrupt him, waving her hand dismissively.

Bellamy stands firm. “No, Chancellor, we fought a war down here, _alone_.” The word is bitter. “We had to make a life down here _alone_ , put together ammo and explosives from _wreckage_ , bandage injuries with _scraps_ , and you still thought that when you came down here you could tell _us_ how to live our lives? We are the reason _you’re still here_.”

There is a long, tense silence. While Abby seems slightly affected by Bellamy’s speech, it’s clear her decision, and that of the Council, hasn’t changed.

Bellamy stands up and finally looks at Clarke, whose breath catches in her throat.

“You don’t understand us _at all_.” And he’s out the door, not waiting for Abby to officially end the session. Clarke stares after him, her mouth dry.

_That went well_.

* * *

 

Bellamy strides out of Alpha Station and across the camp, blood pounding in his ears. He shouldn’t have lost his temper like that, especially when he knew exactly what the rest of the Council’s reaction would be, but he couldn’t help it. With Clarke there…

He shakes his head, trying to clear his head of thoughts of her. He’s got to talk to the others, and he’s got no idea what to say. Things have been hanging by a thread and he doesn’t know how they’ll react to their only request of the Council being denied, again. _Huh_ , Bellamy thinks sardonically. _It’s almost like them putting me on the Council was purely symbolic._

His movement toward _Osu Stegeda_ is abruptly stopped by Clarke, who comes around him from the side and cuts him off. “Hey! Stop!” He realizes he’d vaguely heard her calling his name.

“What the hell was that?” she demands. Bellamy shifts on his feet impatiently as she blocks his way. “What exactly did you think you’d accomplish with that little speech, Bellamy?” She stares at him defiantly, arms crossed and deliberately standing closer than she knows he’s comfortable with right now. The proximity gives him a momentary surge of panic, but he forces it down as he shakes his head and pushes past her. He does not want to get into this right now with Clarke, which of course means she stubbornly keeps up with him.

“I don’t know, Clarke, maybe I was trying to do my job.” He stares resolutely forward, walking just fast enough that Clarke has to almost jog to keep up. He feels irrationally satisfied at her anger, so much better than expectation or goddamn _pity_.

“You know the Council will just use this as an excuse to see you and the others as children—you can’t even keep your temper in a _Council_ _meeting_ , for God’s sake!” Bellamy shakes his head and keeps walking. “What? You’re not going to take this seriously, is that it? You can’t talk like that and expect them to—“

“Oh, because you’ve never yelled at your mother, _Princess_?” Now it’s Bellamy who comes to a halt in front of Clarke, cutting her off. “I know you agree with me about the guns—you know as well as I do what they mean to us and why we need them. So why don’t you tell me why you’re _actually_ mad?”

Clarke uncrosses and then recrosses her arms, not saying anything.

“You’re mad because I didn’t clear this by you, because I’m in there on my own. You’re mad because you weren’t there all those other times to stand next to me and say _the exact same thing_ I just said to the Council, because I _know_ you would have.”

He takes a deep breath. “And you know what, Clarke? That’s _your_ problem, not mine.”

There was a time when he thought her problems were his, and vice versa.

He turns away and walks into _Osu Stegeda_ , where the 44 are gathered and waiting, as they are after every Council meeting.

Harper speaks first. “They said no again, didn’t they?”

Bellamy nods and angry murmuring breaks out.

“Well,” Harper says, “I don’t think we need to ask any more, do you?”

Bellamy doesn’t want to answer, but Jasper does it for him. “I don’t think we need to ask _anything_ anymore. We always know the answer anyway, before Bellamy even gets back from the meeting.” There are mostly nods and assenting murmurs from the others, and out of the corner of his eye Bellamy sees Clarke come in and stand to the side.

Jasper goes on. “What we need is to do what we’ve been talking about for ages now—we need to just get out of here.” Bellamy notices Clarke stiffen but many others, while not enthusiastic, seem resigned to the idea. Even he’s halfway convinced it’s the only answer.

Harper chimes in. “I think Jasper’s right. Much longer here will lead to no good. I know it’s not optimal, but I say we grab some guns and get out of here.”

“And go _where,_ exactly?” Clarke finally speaks up and she’s got the same defiant tone as before. _Great start, Clarke_ , Bellamy thinks.

“Anywhere!” Jasper answers. His eyes are hard as he looks at Clarke. “Anywhere that’s not here.”

Clarke throws up her hands in exasperation. “And do what? Build some half-assed tents and hope you make it through the winter without a power grid? Try and befriend some local Grounders because that went _so well_ last time?” Bellamy wonders if she knows exactly how bitter she sounds.

“This wouldn’t even be under discussion if we thought there were other options, Clarke,” Bellamy says, trying to mollify her. Harper nods.

“Yeah!” says Raven. “And I’ll be there, so you know within a week I’ll have a fence up that’ll make this one look like the equivalent of a dog pissing on a garden.” There is widespread laughter from the group now.

Bellamy goes on, his tone softer now. “If you knew what it’s been like here—” He can tell immediately it was the wrong thing to say, as she opens her mouth angrily, getting ready to become even more self-righteous, when—

“Clarke.” It’s Monty, sitting off to the side. He speaks quietly, in a low voice, but instantly everyone else is silent. “I’m sorry, but this is _our_ decision.”

Bellamy sighs, almost grateful, even though he can see the hurt in her eyes. He thinks she couldn’t have taken it from anyone other than Monty, but he still feels a pang when she turns and walks out of _Osu Stegeda_.

There is a long pause before Bellamy looks around at them and raises his voice again. “Look, I know you’re frustrated. I am too. And Clarke being back…” He swallows. “We all need some time to adjust. I know she’ll come around—she knows just as well as us, maybe even better, that the Council is holding us back and that something major has to change. Really, I think her being here could seriously help our chances with the Council—“

“What, like today?” interrupts Raven sarcastically.

Bellamy grimaces but turns to look at her directly. “Raven, you know Abby, and you know Clarke. They’re both nearly as stubborn as you, but ultimately Abby will listen.” A few people chuckle at that, and even Raven seems to begrudgingly concede the point.

Bellamy goes on. “It feels like we’ve already waited too long, I know that. It seems like all we’ve done since getting back from Mount Weather is wait. And two days ago I would’ve been all for heading out tonight. But Clarke being back changes things, even if we’re not sure yet how. All I’m asking is we wait a little longer before we do something drastic, something we won’t be able to take back. Okay?”

There is widespread silence but several nods and Bellamy hopes they trust him enough on this. He feels like maybe he should stay a bit longer, make sure they’re convinced, but he can’t get that look on Clarke’s face out of his head. He waits a moment before following her into the rest of the camp.

* * *

 

Clarke’s eyes blur with angry tears as she blindly finds her way back to her tent, feeling like it’s not just the argument she’s lost, but her friends, who _were_ her family.

She’s barely aware of sinking to her cot, numb and speechless. She wants to cry, to shout again, but most of all she wants clarity. Does she really disagree with them? Or is it like Bellamy said, damn him, that she was really angry at herself? When did this “we” not include her anymore? With everything she’s done, bad and good, to protect her people, how did they end up here?

She hears a rustle at the opening of the tent and turns, half hoping, half fearing it’s Bellamy. Instead, it’s Abby that comes through the flap, brushing her hair out of her face. Clarke can see the sky outside already starting to get dark.

Abby sees the look on Clarke’s face and hesitates for a moment before sitting next to her on the cot. She doesn’t reach out to embrace her but Clarke is glad for her presence anyway.

“What happened, Mom?” Clarke tries to control the tremor in her voice but only halfway succeeds.

Abby sighs before answering. “Clarke, I believe that you did what you had to do when you left camp. It’s why I didn’t have someone go after you—I wanted to try and respect what you’d done and how you were trying to process it.”

Clarke sits and listens, grateful for what Abby’s saying but afraid to hear the answer to her question.

Abby goes on. “But for the rest of the kids who came back from that place, they didn’t stop needing help just because they weren’t prisoners any more. And I don’t think Bellamy…” she trails off briefly. “I don’t think Bellamy was the same without you here.”

Clarke nods. “That’s what Monty said too.”

Her mother goes on. “I’ve been trying to help them, but I don’t think they really want me to. It’s familiar in a way—I am the parent of a teenager, after all.” Her tone is almost humorous, but at this Clarke feels the anger stir in her chest again.

“Mom, we’re not just teenagers any more, I don’t know how you can still not see that, after all this time.”

Abby is defensive. “I’m sorry, Clarke. I know it bothers you, but that’s part of being your age—”

“It bothers me because I don’t know what more we can do before you’ll see it! How many more people do I have to _kill_ , Mom?” Clarke feels the rage inside her again, as well as that feeling of hopelessness she had after running out of _Osu Stegeda_. What good was all that she did if they just ended up back at square one anyway—her people still seen simply as teenagers to be controlled and tolerated? Moving from one form of a prison to another?

Abby stands up, indignant. “I think I should go.”

“What, Mom? You don’t like to hear about what I did?” Clarke spits out the words. “Is this too _distasteful_ for you to talk about?”

“Don’t you _dare_ talk to me like that, Clarke. Don’t you _dare_ pretend I don’t care about you.” She moves to the tent flap and pushes it open, revealing Bellamy standing just outside. Abby looks at him, and then back at her daughter, before saying, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Clarke,” and exiting the tent.

Bellamy holds the flap open after Abby but doesn’t step in.

“Come in, Bellamy.” He enters and stands a few feet from her cot.

“I talked them down,” he says. “They’re pissed, obviously, but they agreed to wait a little longer before doing anything stupid.”

Clarke laughs without humor. “I don’t know if their idea was that stupid, honestly. Do you?” Bellamy shrugs but says nothing. “I just…I can’t stand this feeling that they don’t accept me anymore.” She takes a breath, knowing they’ve been avoiding the subject, but— _fuck it_. “I wish they understood why I left, Bellamy. Why I had to go, after everything. It’s like they blame me, like they thought I could’ve stayed at Camp! I mean, you get it, don’t you?” The words pour out in a rush, but when she looks back up at Bellamy his eyes are hard.

“Do I?”

She’s uncertain now. “I told you—seeing their faces, it was too much. I wanted to be their leader, I still do, but—“

“Really? Because it seemed to me like you gave up.”

Clarke’s mouth drops open slightly, out of surprise or indignation she’s not sure.

Bellamy’s voice is even but tense. “You want to be a leader? Fine. Then _lead_. But don’t turn your back and then expect us to forget it.” His jaw clenches and Clarke is still dumbfounded, sitting numbly on the cot.

“How do you think Miller, and Monty, and Harper, and—and all the others,” he stumbles for a moment, then goes on, his voice rising. “How do you think they felt when they realized you’d gone? That you couldn’t _bear_ to look at them? That all you saw in our faces was blood and death?” When he says “our,” Clarke’s blood runs cold.

“I thought I knew who you were, but I was wrong. I thought you were a leader, but you’re not. A leader doesn’t just stop being one because it’s hard, or because it hurts—a leader isn’t a leader for themselves, they do it because they can’t _help_ but put others first.”

 Clarke breaks in, unable to bear it any longer. “Bellamy, you _knew_ what I did! You _knew_ what happened, the choice I had to make! It was too much, there was too much pain and death, I couldn’t deal with it!”

 “I was _here_ for you, Clarke!” Bellamy responds immediately, his tone matching hers. “How do you think _I_ felt about what happened? Did you think I would brush the dried blood off my pants, put my black jacket back on, and carry on like nothing had happened?”

 He laughs shortly, but it’s the most hopeless, disheartened laugh Clarke’s ever heard. “The Dropship, Mount Weather, Camp Jaha—it didn’t matter where we went, or what we had to do, I was always going to be there for you.”

 Clarke feels a tear hit her cheek and finds herself still unable to speak.

 “Together.” The word is bitter out of his mouth. “I said it and I meant it.”

 “Bellamy…” her voice is husky, and her hands are shaking. “You don’t—you don’t know how important you are to me, but my leaving, it didn’t have anything to do with…” She trails off. She can’t tell him like this, can she? Has she even said it to herself? She searches his face, drinking in the freckles she dreamt about, the eyes that haunted her every night for sixty-five days. Now they’re filled with pain, so much pain, and she can’t say it.

 “You didn’t just leave, Clarke. You left _me_.”

 And there are tears on his face now, too, and she’s standing up, not sure what to do, when—

“Clarke!” Abby’s voice pierces the silence, making them both jump, and a moment later she throws back the tent flap and bursts inside.

“Mom, please—”“ Clarke is overwhelmed, unable to process anything more from this hellish day.

“No, Clarke, I’m sorry, you have to hear this.” Clarke looks at Bellamy, seeing her own surprise and worry mirrored in his face. ”Jackson went to drop off some meds for the k—for your people.” Abby corrects herself, looking from Bellamy to Clarke.

“And?” Bellamy growls, like he already knows.

“And they’re gone. All of them.”


	4. Part Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am so excited to finally share this ending with you all! Finally a reward for all the angst. :) Thank you to everybody who read, left kudos, or even better a comment! I hope you enjoy.

“They’re _gone_?” Clarke is numb, for a moment unable to process the information that the 44 have left Camp Jaha, even after witnessing their anger in _Osu Stegada_. Her gaze snaps to Bellamy, who doesn’t look as surprised as her but still seems stricken by the news.

Abby nods. “As far as Jackson can tell, they left pretty hastily, only taking a few things with them.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know _what_ they’re thinking, putting themselves at risk like this—“

Bellamy interrupts her, still standing across the tent from Clarke’s cot. “Especially without guns, huh?”

Abby gives him a hard look. “Weapons would be unnecessary if your people would just be more reasonable about their own safety—“

Clarke interrupts her now. “Mom, I was with you before about the guns; I didn’t want that to be the thing that divides us.” She looks at Abby, willing her to understand. “But you have to admit that they were never going to react well to being ignored, not after everything. They feel like you’re dismissing them, along with everything they went through! Conceding the point _has_ to be worth keeping them safe.”

Abby crosses her arms. “This isn’t about conceding a point, it’s about maturity and _responsibility_.” Bellamy bristles at this but doesn’t speak. “We went through hell to get them out of Mount Weather, but they don’t seem to grasp the value of this camp and what we’ve built here, for _them_! This place offers security and they’re just throwing it away, regardless of how it will affect their families, their _parents_ —”

 “And that’s what this is about, isn’t it?” Clarke is losing her temper again, rapidly. “They didn’t do what they were told!” Abby looks indignant, but Clarke goes on. “They took their lives into their own hands, just like they have every single day since the Dropship crashed into the ground! It’s what they had to do to survive down here, and what do you want from them? To just forget that and go back to deferring to anyone over eighteen because you _clearly_ know better?” She knows her sarcasm is bitter, but the emotional rollercoaster of this day has left her nerves raw and her patience gone.

Abby throws up her hands. “Do I have to remind you of what I had to go through before we got them out of that place? The feeling of my _body being drilled into_? I have sacrificed for you, all of you, and this is how you repay me?”

Clarke could swear her vision goes red for a moment. “I’m not denying that what happened to you was painful, but that’s not what got my people out of Mount Weather. _I_ did that! You’ve tried _very_ hard to keep your hands clean on the ground, leaving the pain and horror to the rest of us—”

Abby raises her voice now too, which only serves to further infuriate her daughter. “Clarke, I have had to make hard decisions as Chancellor, you know that perfectly well, just like you know all I have _ever_ done is look out for your well-being, and everyone’s—“

“And you think you’re the only one who can! I _know_ them, Mom, I’m _one_ of them…” Clarke takes a shaky breath, feeling like she’s trying to convince herself as much as Abby. “…And I know for a _fact_ , better than anybody, that your opinion of the greater good leads to good people _dying_ , people like _Dad_ —”

“Clarke.” Bellamy’s voice cuts through the argument, low and insistent. Clarke looks at him, feeling almost hysterical, not sure if she can handle all these emotions.

“How can you be so calm, Bellamy? This is _absurd_ , how can she stand there and—“

“Clarke,” he says again, for all the world like he’s agreeing with Abby, like he’s telling her to forget it. She’s about to speak again, more indignant than ever, when she sees the tiniest shake of his head.

 _Not now_. She can hear his voice in her head as clearly as if he was standing at her elbow, his breath tickling her ear, and she shivers. _You won’t get anywhere with her_ , he’s saying.

 _I know_. She is fighting off resigning to hopelessness, but she feels a spark moving from her heart to her fingertips as her gaze continues to lock with Bellamy’s. To prevent Abby from noticing, she says aloud, “What will happen if—when they come back, Mom?” _But Abby won’t listen…_

His jaw clenches. _Then we stop talking_.

And she understands.

Oblivious to the wordless exchange, Abby seems relieved at her change in tone. “Normally we would punish anyone leaving the camp after dark without permission, but I promise that they’ll be accepted back without repercussions.”

Feigning resignation, Clarke says, “I guess that’s the best we can hope for.” Abby still looks a little puzzled at her rapid switch, so Clarke goes on, raising her voice plaintively. “I’m tired, Mom, I don’t want to argue any more. Okay?”

Abby nods, accepting Clarke’s submission, as Clarke knew she would. She feels almost guilty as Abby murmurs a soft “good night” and leaves the tent, but she thinks she’s finally come to terms with her mother. She hopes someday Abby will come to terms with _her_.

There is silence in the tent, Bellamy still standing by the door. They look at each other steadily for several seconds before Clarke says in a soft voice, “Two hours. Meet me by Raven’s Gate.”

Bellamy nods and before he turns to walk through the tent flap, his eyes soften as he looks at her. Then, very slowly, as if he’s almost remembering how, a small but genuine smile spreads across his face. Clarke swears she even sees _pride_ in his expression, and her heart skips. The moment is over almost as soon as she registers it, as he disappears into the darkness outside, but the warmth in Clarke’s chest remains.

She goes back to the bed and carefully lies down, confident the adrenaline and emotion will prevent her from nodding off. _One hour and fifty-nine minutes to go_ …

* * *

 

A few minutes before the appointed time, Bellamy heads carefully to the part of the outer fence deactivated by Raven, not wanting to draw attention. A storm of emotions churns inside of him, not least the tiniest glimmer of hope he felt as soon as he could tell Clarke had understood him. What a bizarre role reversal that had been, _him_ being the one to talk _her_ down, especially when he’d wanted to shout at Abby as much as she had.

But then he kept seeing Jasper’s face, and Miller’s, and Monty’s… they didn’t have a reason to trust him anymore, that much was clear, and could he blame them? What exactly had he imagined for Clarke’s return? It is more painfully clear than ever that they can’t get back what they had, and where did that leave him?

 _What’s wrong with a little chaos?_ The ghost of his former self, fresh off the Dropship and arrogant up to his ears, mocked him now. _I can’t be who I was with her, and I can’t be who I was without her. So what the hell can I be?_

His thoughts are interrupted by rustling at his side as Clarke makes her way toward the electric fence.  They stand for a moment facing the land beyond Camp Jaha. Then, wordlessly, they both push past the wires of the fence and out into the darkness.

It feels both familiar and strange, striding quietly through the night with Clarke by his side, but a nagging emptiness persists.

They pause when they reach the treeline, looking for some sign of their friends’ passage.

“I’ll bet anything they used Raven’s Gate too, so they probably went into the forest somewhere around here,” Clarke says. Bellamy nods, and a few minutes pass before he spots a narrow swath of trampled undergrowth.

“This way.” She looks up from examining a row of bushes for disturbance and follows his gaze.

The silence between them grows tenser as they track the 44’s path, and he can tell Clarke wants to say something. Feeling like he’s putting off the inevitable, he still stubbornly picks up the pace a little so they have to concentrate instead on moving forward every time he thinks he hears a shift in her breathing, as if she’s getting ready to speak.

Finally, he’s forced to stop for a rest, as they’ve been walking quickly for over an hour, and they’re both exhausted, emotionally and physically. Clarke sits at the base of a tree while Bellamy stands a foot or so from her, looking around. They’ve been relatively quiet, but old habits die hard…

“You don’t have to be worried about Grounders,” Clarke says, noticing. “They avoid me like the plague.” She leans against the tree, closing her eyes briefly. “I think they’ve already started telling their children cautionary tales about me.”

Bellamy shakes his head and exhales a short laugh. “Y’know, Clarke, I think they have enough two-headed deer for generations worth of scary bedtime stories.” Clarke laughs but almost immediately stops, seemingly surprised at her own amusement. She opens her eyes and looks at Bellamy, whose small smile gradually fades again. “There are plenty of monsters in these woods without you counting yourself among them, Clarke.”

“Bellamy…” She looks at him with her forehead furrowed in concern, and he tries to brush it off.

“It’s fine, c’mon. Let’s keep going; we’re not sure how much of a head start they have.” He sniffs and stretches his neck, preparing to head off again, but Clarke doesn’t move.

“You’re not a monster, Bellamy.”

He feels a surge of déjà-vu, seeing her there, sitting under a tree and trying to comfort him, the darkness only broken by the golden glint of her hair. Only this time, he no longer believes her.

He sighs, unable to put it off any longer. “I think you should go on alone, Clarke.” Her mouth opens in shock, and she scrambles for a moment, trying to get her feet under her to stand up.

He shakes his head and swallows. “No, I’m serious. What I said before…you _can_ be a leader again, they’ll let you. They won’t let me, but it’s okay, I don’t…I don’t deserve it anyway.” His eyes are burning, but now that the words are coming he can’t stop them. “I don’t know where to go, I don’t know what I’ll do, it doesn’t really matter. But what I do know is that you’ll be fine, you’ll all be fine without me, and—“

Clarke jerks to her feet. “Bellamy, stop! Please, stop, I can’t—don’t _say_ that—please, listen to me—” But he turns away from her, tears blurring his vision.

It’s because of the tears that by the time he spots the three Grounders moving low and fast across the forest towards them, blades out, it’s almost too late.

Clarke must see them a split second after he does, because she yells his name as the first spear whistles past his ear and embeds itself with a thud in the tree behind them. He’s just had time to roll out of the way and look to Clarke, who is scanning the rest of the woods for Grounders coming from other directions, her gun already in her hand.

Wordlessly they go back-to-back, and Bellamy quickly checks his rifle to make sure it’s loaded. They’re poised for a moment, breathing heavily, before the Grounders burst out from a line of trees, their faces painted dark for camouflage.

There are four of them, and Bellamy has a moment of feeling almost insulted before one of them is quickly felled by a shot from his rifle, while another takes a bullet to the leg from Clarke’s gun. Then the remaining three (a huge, bald man, a woman with a mean scar across her face, and the man Clarke hit, armed with a wicked knife) surge across the clearing.

The big one goes straight for Bellamy ( _of course_ , he thinks) while the other two make for Clarke. He just has time to see Clarke aim another shot at the second man before his own opponent demands all of his attention.

That is to say, the bald mountain hits him so hard he swears they should be able to hear his brain rattling back at Camp Jaha.

Tackled to the ground, his head buzzing and senses fuzzy, Bellamy fumbles for the ax by his side and sticks it into the first part of the mountain he can reach. A moment of respite follows, as the Grounder grunts and rolls away. He’s barely back on balance before the other man’s knife lashes out, and pain blooms across Bellamy’s arm. He hears Clarke yell in alarm as the ax falls from his numb fingers.

The huge man lunges at Bellamy again, who has time to think, _Oh shit_ , before he is knocked into the tree with the Grounder’s hands around his throat. Time seems to slow as he squeezes, and Bellamy struggles to pry his fingers off, slowly losing air. His focus narrows and suddenly the other man’s breathing is like thunder in his ears, the scrape of bark behind him like an avalanche. Blackness starts to enter the sides of his vision and he feels his arms fall to his sides. Sliding into unconsciousness, the world becomes detached. Panic gives way to calm, even relief. He’s not worried about Clarke, he’s not worried about Octavia or his friends, he just feels the world becoming more distant and he’s welcoming it, embracing it…

With a sudden jerk, cold air rushes into his nose and mouth, stinging his lungs, and he realizes he’s been let go. For a second the Grounder just looks at him, a dumbfounded expression on his face, before the tip of a long knife bursts from his chest. Both he and Bellamy look stupidly at the blade, uncomprehending, before the Grounder is pulled backward as the weapon is tugged out from inside him, and it’s Clarke at the other end, her braid disheveled and blood running down her face.

The Grounder falls to the ground as Clarke stands over him, and Bellamy can only watch in awe. Oxygen surges back into his brain and colors burst back to vibrancy, all centered on her—the bright blood on her pale skin, the blue of her eyes, the gold of her hair against the green-black of the forest.

“Are you okay?” She is searching his face, concern darkening her expression as she takes in the blood running down his arm and the dazed look in his eyes. As she stands there, panting slightly, ignoring her own injury to check on him, something clicks inside Bellamy. He’d never expected to see her again—and yet here she is, once again taking up the center of his world. Without her, he hadn’t been able to see a life ahead of him, but with her there, close enough to touch, Bellamy realizes he doesn’t want oblivion anymore—probably not since the moment she walked back into camp. It dawns on him now what was cemented then without him being aware of it—that he would do anything, _live_ through anything, for the chance to be with her. It’s a simple fact but in this moment, it’s enough. Enough to keep going.

“Bellamy?” He blinks out of his daze, realizing he still hasn’t answered her question. “Yeah,” he croaks. “Yeah, I’m okay.” And for the first time in a long while, he believes it.

* * *

 

Clarke pushes her hair from her eyes and crouches by the dying Grounder. “Who sent you?” she demands, slightly out of breath but still demanding. “I was in these woods for weeks without the slightest sign from any clan, what the hell changed?”

The Grounder coughs wetly, a dribble of blood pooling at the corner of his mouth. “ _Ai nou tel op nuffin, Skayon_.”

At that, Clarke shakes her head, her face hard and focused. “ _Ai laik Klarke kom Skaikru_ and you _will_ tell me what I want to know!” She presses her weight onto the wound in the Grounder’s chest, and he groans in pain. “ _Why now_? Why was I ignored before?”

“Because…you were alone.” The Grounder’s voice is weakening.

“What?” Clarke looks down at him, confused.

“As long as you were alone, we were told not to…” He trails off and his eyes flutter, but Clarke shakes him. “I don’t understand, what were your orders?”

“Her _seken_ …” The huge man is fading quickly, and he swallows before reciting, “If the _heda_ ever returns to her _seken_ , the threat is too dangerous…the _heda_ and the _seken_ …can’t be…together…” And he’s gone, the last breath out of his body.

Still crouching by his head, Clarke stares down at the dead Grounder, his words echoing in her ears. _Together_ …this is what it’s all about, she realizes. To the Grounders and to Bellamy. The Grounders were content with her trudging through the forest alone, but her and Bellamy _together_ are a risk of future violence and possibly revenge that they had to stop. And Bellamy…when he had said, ”Together,” all those months ago, he’d meant it as a promise she had unknowingly broken, and it had broken him. _He trusted me, and when I left—I didn’t realize_ _what it would do to him._ She’d seen a look in his eyes, as that huge Grounder had held him to the tree by his throat, a look she’d only seen on Bellamy before once before—resignation.

She looks to him now, sitting against the trunk of the tree, dazed, angry bruises already blooming across his throat _._ The Grounders and Bellamy had one thing in common—they thought she was gone for good. Otherwise the Grounders would’ve killed her as soon as she was out of sight of Camp Jaha instead of waiting until she was with Bellamy again. _They’re going to regret that decision_. She stands and speaks evenly, almost businesslike.

“They didn’t get it.”

“The Grounders?” Bellamy says confusedly, his voice raw and raspy. Clarke nods, and repeats, “They didn’t get it, but I’d hoped you would.”

“Get what?”

Clarke chooses her next words carefully. “I can accept _they_ thought there was a possibility I’d never be back—they don’t know me, and they don’t know you. But you…did you understand me so little, Bellamy?” She steps closer to him. “They waited to kill me, to kill us, because they hoped I’d stay out there alone forever. But you…I guess I never made you realize before—” She is very close to him now, and his breathing is shallow.

“I shouldn’t have left you the way I did, I know that now. But you…you should have known…” She raises a hand, carefully resting it on his chest. At the contact, Bellamy’s breath catches and his eyes flicker, but he doesn’t flinch.

“I was always going to come back to you.”

Their faces can’t be more six inches apart but Clarke waits, leaving the next step to him, if he wants it.

For a moment he doesn’t move, and panic seizes Clarke’s chest. But then, hardly noticeably, he begins to move his hand very slowly ( _maddeningly_ slowly, if she’s being honest), traveling up her arm, skimming her jacket. Finally he reaches her hair, and Clarke is very still. He twines his fingers in her braid, already coming loose after the fight, and he carefully runs through the bindings, combing out her hair, concentrating intently.

He moves his hand up, where it hovers by her neck, rough fingertips just grazing her skin. He still hasn’t said anything, and the anticipation is killing her.

Clarke, getting ever more anxious with his silence, opens her mouth impatiently. But before she can say anything, his grip around the back of her neck tightens and he pulls her firmly towards him, crushing their lips together. After so long, the kiss _should_ be anticlimactic, unable to live up to what she furtively dreamed or allowed herself to imagine…clearly she’d underestimated Bellamy. She immediately melts into the kiss, bringing her hands up to those glorious cheekbones, savoring too the sensation of his hands, one spread across the small of her back and the other buried in her hair. She’s almost dizzy with the feeling of his tongue exploring her mouth, rough and demanding, even reverent. The full length of her body presses against his, every point of contact burning with heat and need. He tastes like the dusky air of the forest, like the smoke of a campfire, like trust, like _hope_ …

Perhaps with awareness of where they are, and what they’d originally set out to do, the kiss slows down, becoming more languid. They finally break apart, their breathing jagged, and she’s pretty sure by the way he’s still holding her to his chest that he gets it now.

“C’mon.” He’s smiling now, but what _really_ sets her nerves afire is the look of _pride_ on his face. “Let’s go find our people.”

* * *

 

Stopped at the front of the line, Monty is rubbing his temples, trying to ignore Jasper arguing with Harper. They’ve been walking for several hours in the darkness, and Monty is tired, cranky, and unconvinced that leaving in the middle of the night with half a plan was the best idea the Delinquents have ever had.

Harper is saying angrily to Jasper, “This is stupid, if we really wanted to go to the ocean we should’ve gotten way more supplies—“

“Hey, I didn’t say we had to go there, it was just an idea—”

“Sure, ‘just’ an idea you insisted was the only _reasonable_ response to Abby shooting us down again—”

Miller interrupts her. “C’mon, Harper, you wanted to get out of there as much as I did—”

“Guys!” Monty finally breaks in. “We need to regroup here. Clearly if we’re headed to the ocean we need to take a break, so—“

“Who says we should even go to the ocean?” Monroe sounds exasperated. “I don’t see why that’s better than finding a place near the mountains—“

“Well, this is going great,” a sarcastic voice cuts in. Startled, Monty and the others turn to see Bellamy and Clarke, looking a little worse for wear ( _but when are they not?_ Monty thinks) but calm and even a little amused.

There is a heavy pause. Monty shifts awkwardly, and looks at Jasper to gauge his reaction, and finally Miller breaks the silence. “What the hell happened to you guys?”

“We’re fine, thank you, Miller,” Clarke answers, looking at Bellamy before speaking to the group. “We came to find you.”

Some people whisper excitedly, and Monty sees Monroe flash a grin at Harper. He feels cautiously optimistic, but it’s not clear to him what they intend to do now that they _have_ found them.

Jasper, as usual, has the same thought. “So, you’re here. Now what?” He’s not the only one looking expectantly at Bellamy and Clarke.

“Now you follow us.” Another pause at this almost laughably abrupt and arrogant statement from Bellamy. But then, as if in wordless consensus, the 44 pick up their packs, check their water bottles, and follow Bellamy and Clarke, who’ve already started walking again.

“ _Seriously_?” Jasper looks at Monty incredulously, but he at least has the sense to lower his voice. Monty can only shrug his shoulders and start moving along with the others, trusting his faith in Clarke and Bellamy isn’t misplaced. There was a time he wouldn’t have doubted, but…

 “C’mon, let’s go!” Bellamy is brusque and businesslike. “No more arguments.” Monty almost wishes Murphy were here to make a smartass comment, but instead everyone falls into line behind the disheveled pair.

As they pick up a brisk walking pace, Miller leans towards Monty and whispers, “Looks like Mom and Dad are back.”

Monty quickly shushes him, glancing furtively at Bellamy and Clarke, who walk in front, shoulders touching. “Shut up, don’t let them hear you call them that—you looking for a kick in the ass?” But Miller gives him a sarcastic look and he can’t help breaking out in a grin.

“Where do you think we’re going, anyway?” Monty asks.

“We’re going back where we belong, Monty,” Bellamy calls from up front, swagger in his step as well as his voice. Monty thinks he looks awfully smug for someone who looks like he just got the crap beaten out of him, but then he sees a look Bellamy gives Clarke and he thinks he might just understand.

Jasper, not noticing this, is still protesting. “After all that we’re just going back to _Camp Jaha_? What the hell, Bellamy? What’s the point of—”

Clarke and Bellamy stop and turn suddenly, forcing the group to come to a halt (including Jasper walking straight into Miller, who glares at him). They face the group as Clarke speaks. “We’re not going to Camp Jaha, Jasper. We’re going back to the one place on this planet that was ours, the place we made our own, for better or worse.” A few people murmur as it dawns on them. Miller whispers to Monty, “Can they really mean the Dropship?”

Clarke goes on. “There are good memories there, and bad ones. It’s where we laughed, and slept, where we celebrated and mourned, where we fought and learned and _died_. It’s where we embraced what they’d unknowingly us, that day when they blasted us down to Earth to die. Our _freedom_.”

She looks at Bellamy, whose eyes have not left her face and don’t even as she finishes, addressing the remnants of the 100.

“We’re going home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A million thanks to Brennanaphone, my fearless beta, who read at least four versions of this last chapter and helped me improve it massively every single time.  
> Please leave a comment if you liked this, and say hi on tumblr!

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my beta Brennanaphone for pushing me to write this! My second fanfic ever, so I look forward to any feedback/commentary. Say hi on my blog, liciapocalypse.tumblr.com!


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